Handlebars
by DaGeekGoddesses
Summary: *Inspired by Handlebars by Flobots* Oneshot: a lot of people will pass Flicker's TVs.


**A/N: OH MY GOD She's back.**

**Yes, I, Sunshine, have returned from a long and difficult Nanowrimo season in which I came out with a half finished book. Grr.**

**But I needed to let you all know that I hadn't died yet, so I'm gonna submit this to you guys instead. It's NOT A SONGFIC. It was inspired by the song 'Handlebars' by Flobots. And even if you don't like weird, hip-hip/prog-rock fusion like me, listen to it. The lyrics are phenomenal, and you'll understand this story a HELLUVALOT more.**

**So yeah.**

**~Sunshine**

I can help you. I can teach you. I can lead you.  
A lot of people will pass Flicker's TVs. It's existed on this street for forever. If not to enter to buy some of the dust-collecting merchandise, they pass to stand in the middle of the sidewalk to watch the large flat-screen set right in the middle of the display in the front. It's the old that let go of their childhoods as they see the various programs that flash across the smooth surface. It's the middle-aged, the ones that walk blind among the streets, ready for the next thing that comes by, easily distracted. It's the wide eyed children, wandering around in wonder, before they get pulled along by parents, fearful of them running off.  
No one acknowledges the multi-story institution just across the street from Flicker's TVs, with bars on every window. They're not supposed to.  
A gathering stops in front of the massive, brightened surface, watching the good-looking, charismatic man smile into the crowd through a camera. He talks about his plans for the future, his virtues of the past, and his motto: I can help you. I can teach you. I can lead you.

* * *

Whether it be authorities or followers, he's known as The Kid.  
Both seek him, for guidance, for reward, or maybe just for the good of everything else. His face is everywhere, but they never get it right. Sometimes, his chin's too long, too square. Other times, his eyes are spaced too far apart. Usually, it's his nose is too big. But other than that, they know who he is: straight brown hair. Lighter eyes. Pale skin. All clad under a hoodie with the hood drawn over his forehead, zipped to a few inches under his collarbone.  
He looks normal; it even surprises himself that he can pass unnoticed in a crowd. Essentially, everyone's looking for no one. It makes him smile, that thought.  
But the fear, the wonder that clings to him like an itching, tight sweater is what makes him powerful. A little too powerful.  
He walks down the street. Sees the dirty stains on the sidewalk. The puffs of dirt coming from cars like the foul smoke of a cigarette. Stained rainwater snaking down the gutter. A girl of about five, in a pink and brown dress, stares up at him from under his hood. He smiles at her, and she smiles back, her blue eyes glittering, cheeks dimpling. He wishes he could get her out of here. All of the children. But there's nothing he can do; He had to pay the hard way to not become faceless.  
He gets caught in that infamous crowd in front of Flicker's TVs, as they all stare at that good-looking, charismatic man. The one smiling into the camera as he says I can help you. I can teach you. I can lead you.

* * *

He doesn't really recall at what point his title switched from Leader to Dictator. But hey, it's still the same guy, it's still him, so he'll just smile and take it.  
He steps on the podium.  
Camera flashes pinprick the backs of his eyes. His agents stand behind, guarding doors with black suits and no expression.  
He's glad for the lack of expression, but he'll admit that it does scare him, a little.  
In front of him, among the cameras, stands the black, navy, and brown sea of reporters, seemingly removing and applying their pens to their papers like clockwork. Up, down. Up, down.  
He wonders why he created this. Then again, things needed to be easy to do. Otherwise, he doesn't know if he could direct millions.  
He puts that glimmering smile on, and suddenly, he's the good-looking, charismatic man that leads - or dictates, whatever - the country. I can help you. I can teach you. I can lead you.  
But he's sure he can't. Not really. He's scared of losing it all.

* * *

Since the gathering in front of Flicker's TVs got too large, a few authorities have been called to get them out of the streets, tell them to go home.  
They lead about fifty people out of the sidewalk, saying, "come on, you can go now."  
And like the blinded souls they are, they follow.  
The Kid bows his head. I'm so sorry.  
But he backs off before a guiding hand can curl around one of his biceps, lead him away. Who even knows? They could know the texture of his skin by now.  
But he looks up at a clock, past the bars on those windows across the street, and reads the time, thinking, soon. Soon. So. So. Sosososo. Soon.

* * *

The little girl looks back at the hooded boy.  
He smiled at her. She hasn't seen a smile in a while.  
The policemen look at the young man under that hoodie.  
He seems strange. Tense? What could he be scared about? Everything's under control. Tired? Tired is a state of mind, everyone's told that. He knows damn right that it is. What else? Scared? Nothing's a threat.  
A threat?  
Those men in black suits with blank expressions stand in unison until one breaks away to listen closer to his earpiece.  
Risk. Risk. Risk.  
He turns to his counterparts. Nods. They know exactly what could happen.

* * *

The Kid is getting closer to the police cars. They're detaining a man. He didn't follow their orders. He didn't step away from that large, dust-gathering screen in the front display of Flicker's TVs. He didn't follow authority, and he needs to relearn.  
The Kid's gut wrenches with the fear, excitement, anger of the moment. Adrenaline runs freely through his veins. He's struggling to keep still.  
His muscles tense. His throat seizes up. His fingers curl into his palm, his hands becoming fists. There's blood pounding in his head, and he couldn't think straight if he tried.  
He sees the policemen beginning to look up at him, taking interest. Why was this dumb kid watching them? Why? Did he not know the rules?  
The Kid smirks.  
Oh, he knows those rules.  
Oh, he knows those rules.

* * *

The blank faced men start to lead The Dictator off the stage.  
He's frightened. Did he say something wrong? What did he do? Did he mislead people? Is it finally obvious that he's been faking the last five, six years?  
Instead, they lead him into a familiar office, with gentle, off-white walls and red, red curtains and plush carpets that give way like gentle springs under is fancy, Italian-leather dress shoes.  
They sit him down in the office chair.  
They open his computer for him.  
They tap something into the keyboard.  
They nod to him, silently, before backing off, leaving him with a computer, with a screen showing something from an outdoor security camera. A few police cars are parked in front of a TV store. Oh, no, what happened now?  
But he watches.  
What else can he do?

* * *

The Kid stares at the police cars.  
Just. Stares.  
Until the policemen let go of the man who waited in front of the shop too long. And good, good, great, he's gotten their attention. The man walks away, maybe frightened.  
The Kid doesn't spare a thought for the man.  
He just pulls his hood farther and farther off his head.  
His face is everywhere, but they never get it right. Sometimes, his chin's too long, too square. Other times, his eyes are spaced too far apart. Usually, it's his nose is too big. He looks normal; he can pass unnoticed in a crowd, walk blindly among them.  
But immediately, there are hands on guns, pulled out. He's staring down the barrels of twenty loaded guns, and he feels hands on his shoulders, the chill metal of a pair of handcuffs lying against his wrists, stinging him with their cold.  
They don't even bother taking him into their cars. They just take him right across the street, to where that multi-story institution just across the street from Flicker's TVs, with bars on every window, is. The one that no one is allowed to acknowledge.  
But oh, how he has to now.  
But he's smiling. He can hear the rustle of fabric as more people remove their hoodies from their heads, revealing their seemingly normal faces. That the policemen couldn't recognize. Because they don't need to know who these carbon-copy men and women are.

* * *

He flickers away.  
The Dictator, that's all he does.  
He takes a fleeting sip of the whiskey in the frigid glass that he sent for as soon as he was set in front of the computer that he's still looking at right now.  
He knows it. He knows who they have.  
He saw that sly, evil grin from The Kid to the camera as he was walked off.  
He knows something. No, he knows everything. The Kid is a genius. He knew what he stood for, and he couldn't be scared for anything.  
He slides a hand into a drawer that's conspicuously unlocked this time. Where he knows the Plan B is.  
The Plan B that he knows comes with a metal barrel.

* * *

The Kid stares out of those jail cell bars on the windows.  
A lot of people will pass Flicker's TVs. It's existed on this street for forever. If not to enter to buy some of the dust-collecting merchandise, they pass to stand in the middle of the sidewalk to watch the large flat-screen set right in the middle of the display in the front.  
Or?  
People will pass Flicker's TVs to finally stand back against the iron fists. They're the ones that scream as they fight each and every officer that stands in that street, as they fight with everything they've got. And he knows that more are, everywhere, not just in his plain sight, in front of a TV store that no one really cares about.  
Except to stand in the middle of the sidewalk to watch the large flat-screen set right in the middle of the display in the front. To watch that man who must be knocked down right now.  
The Kid could laugh.  
Everyone thought that The Dictator was strong. Their leading iron fist.  
He saw that he was just a coward.  
The Kid smiles.  
He's freeing people. He's liberating a country.  
With enough sacrifice?  
It's as easy as riding a bike.


End file.
